


Two For the Show

by Manuscriptor



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Art Studio, Existentialism, Gen, Interviews, about robots and math and art, idk i'm floundering, no tags head empty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-14 07:46:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28917069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Manuscriptor/pseuds/Manuscriptor
Summary: Marcus was nodding almost immediately this time. “Of course,” he said. “What better way to make art than to draw from your own life? It’s that experience that lets you create with more freedom. And I think you’re able to speak to more people when you are opening up your heart.”Angela could easily see how this android had led a revolution.“Of course,” she said. “That’s the best way to reach . . . . people. Outside those themes, as well as the obvious styles that you draw from as inspiration, some critics argue that mathematical algorithms cannot create unique art. What would you say to that?”
Relationships: Connor & Markus (Detroit: Become Human)
Kudos: 6





	Two For the Show

**Author's Note:**

> if you want to read a sweeter version of this story, InterstellarVagabond wrote [One For the Cameras](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17091107#main), they don't know i wrote this so don't tell them it exists
> 
> i just wanted to write about robots and art

“We’re joining Angela Daly on the ground now. Angela, can you give us an update?” 

The blonde women straightened at the mention of her name, bringing the microphone up as she smiled a customer-service smile that was backed by thousands of dollars. She even laughed, like she had been joking with the news anchor herself. 

“Thank you, Dave,” she said. “And yes, I can. I’m at Next Step Studios and you would not _believe_ the crowd that this local artist has drawn. We have an exclusive interview with a pretty unconventional, up-and-coming artist from our own local Detroit in just a few minutes but I’m here on the front lines to give you an up-close and personal view of the news—as it happens.” 

She finished the tagline with a wink to the cameras, waiting until she got the go-ahead by the crew that they had cut before she dropped the act. 

“What is this?” she asked, handing off her microphone and puffing into her hands before some intern passed her a pair of gloves and she was able to pull them on. “Some robotic stunt?” 

The person operating the camera that was passing her the travel mug of coffee gave her a look. “We try to avoid terms like ‘robotic’ nowadays,” he said. “I don’t think it’s right. Politically, you know?” 

Angela didn’t know but she took her coffee without protesting, wrapping her hands around the cardboard to soak up the heat. “Can we go inside yet?” she asked instead. “It’s fucking freezing out here. Is my media pass really that worthless? I thought we got to skip the lines.”

“They’re opening the doors soon,” an intern said, stepping in to reapply the makeup on her cheeks so the lights from the cameras didn’t glare too much. “In the next couple minutes.” 

Angela hunched around her cup of coffee. “Fucking media badge,” she muttered.

She wasn’t going to complain too much though. The line to the art studio stretched around the block, and the fact that she had been chosen to cover the event was going to look great for her. Maybe, if everything went right tonight, she wouldn’t be doing any more outside live reports. She could get a nice job somewhere warm, maybe reporting the weather or something less volatile as some robotic PR stunt. She would put on a smile for the cameras and hope that the paycheck was worth it. 

They did make it inside eventually, though it was a heavy screening process. All of the cameras had to be handed over and searched, even passed through some sort of scanner before the okay was given and they were returned. 

And then their bags were handed over and the process was repeated all over again. Angela tried not to stare at the LEDs of the androids that were processing them. It was weird for them to move so much like . . . . _humans_. Their eyes flicked around rapidly, hands skipping around their work in a less methodical way than usual. They would nudge each other with their shoulders or elbows, mutter something under their breath, and then laugh. Like they were sharing an inside joke. _Laughing at Angela._

She rattled her media badge, looking at them pointedly. 

They looked at the badge, looked at each other, and then wordlessly went back to their work, less jokey this time. 

Angela huffed and crossed her arms, forced to wait in the line like the rest of them. Even then, it was only a couple minutes of standing out in the cold with her coat pulled tight around her until they were finally allowed in the building. And that was welcomed warmth as they were finally able to take off their hats and coats and gloves.

Angela immediately motioned for hair and makeup, snatching up the hand mirror to make sure she hadn’t been completely messed up. After a few minutes of brushes and makeup palettes, Angela waved them away and grabbed her microphone again, fixing her hair to make sure it lay properly as the cameraman reset his machine from its inspection and setting it up on his shoulder.

“Are we ready?” Angela asked. She had no idea how the technology worked but she wanted to get this whole story over and done with as soon as she could. “Are we live?” 

“Almost, miss,” some random intern said. They were holding all of the coats and the to-go coffee cups, juggling them all to make sure they didn’t drop anything.

The cameraman settled the camera on his shoulder, checked all the different screens and settings, and then gave her a thumbs up. “We are a go.” 

Angela beamed at the camera. “Hello and good evening, Detroit,” she said. “It’s me, Angela Daly, reporting live. As many of you know, a new wave of androids is waking up across our city and across our nation. With so many new minds and perspectives, it’s no wonder that the art and music industry has been _booming_.” 

The teleprompter was scrolling and Angela dutifully read the words, even if she didn’t really believe everything she was saying.

“You’re joining me tonight at the Next Step Studios where the leader of this great change is unveiling his newest line of work, and, as he’s already promised, it’s going to be the first of many. You know him as the spark that started this revolution but others might know him better as . . . Markus.” 

Angela waved her hand at the camera and the cameraman sighed but cut the recording. 

“ _Markus_?” Angela asked. She was looking around for Syd. “Just Markus? That sounds horrible, is there no last name?” 

Syd just waved his papers at her, smacking them as he gestured to the teleprompter. “It’s a fucking name!” he said. “Just read it. Why does it have to sound good?” 

“You're the script writer,” Angela said, fussing with her hair as she readied herself for the camera again. “It’s your job to make it sound good. And research his fucking last name.” 

“Well, there was no fucking last name,” Syd hissed back. “Just read the lines.” He gestured at the cameraman. “Fucking _roll_ , man!” 

The cameraman sighed and brought the camera back up, waiting a moment before shooting Angela a thumb’s up. 

“We’ve been teased with glimpses here and there but tonight is the first time we’ll be seeing full works,” Angela said. “And you’ll want to stay tuned for our exclusive interview with the android himself later tonight. This is Angela Daly, bringing you the news—as it happens.” 

The crew all slumped in relief as she finished that section of the script, and Angela offered her face as the makeup crew jumped up. The intern with the coats and coffee was talking with some doorman who was trying to help lighten her load. Syd was already by the cameraman, trying to get him to get b-roll shots of the huge line still stretched around the outside of the study and the crowds of people and androids alike that were filtering into the maze of artworks, accepting glasses of wine that were offered by wait staff and starting to peruse. 

“We need some shots of the artwork as well,” Syd said. “They are only giving us five minutes per camera and I want to make the most out of that.” 

The cameraman nodded and let Syd lead him further into the gallery, pointing his camera wherever Syd directed and trying to get as much usable film as possible. Angela let them go. She wasn’t interested in that part of journalism. 

Instead, she waved down one of the waiters and snagged a glass of wine, heading into the art exhibit for herself. She had a good hour or so before her interview was scheduled and with the rest of the crew getting the b-roll footage and organizing everything else, she had a chance to look through the art herself outside the pretense of a job. 

It was . . . . . good. She would admit that. 

The smaller pieces tended to be abstract smears of color and emotion. Angela was never one who could look at that sort of thing and understand it, but at least the wine was sweet and the studio was filled with the soft whispers and murmurs as everyone else appreciated it instead. Angela just passed off her empty glass for a full one and tried to stay out of the way of the hippies and pretentious collectors that swept through the space like they already owned it all.

Maybe that was how Angela found herself at the back of the gallery, where the walls and displays opened up for the larger pieces. It was almost like a warehouse but with expensive studio lighting and even a section that had been cleared that looked like it could be used as a dance floor. 

And this was where the real artwork was, apparently. 

A huge canvas stretched the length of the room on the left side. Another was suspended up at an angle so that it was almost above you, forcing you to crane your neck just to look at it all. It would take gallons of paint to cover each without a doubt, and the detail that was given to each one had to have taken days. Angela didn’t really care about the finer points and “evoked emotions” that critics tended to focus on, but she could at least acknowledge the effort that this big of a project took.

The upright canvas on the left was every shade of blue to purple with slashes of black cutting through it all. It was still sort of abstract, but if Angela stood at the opposite side of the room and tilted her hand and the right angle, she could pick out different triangles of blue in the chaos, like the ones that used to be identity markers for working androids. It looked like the sky had been made into glass and then shattered. 

Angela liked it, in a strange sort of way. She didn’t understand it but she liked it. 

The other painting had more definitive shapes. Faces, androids of every make and model, had been carefully detailed in curved flakes of oil paint, giving the whole piece a 3D feel, like they were ready to come off the page and breathe. Other sections were flatter—like the sketchy scene of an android standing in the middle of a street, hands raised as some police force stampeded towards him. They had been drawn in flat acrylic paint, so they lacked the emotion and life that the faces did, and had been purposefully drawn more monstrous than they actually were. 

And maybe that was all on purpose.

Angela finished her glass of wine and grabbed another. She didn’t know how to think through all these complicated emotions anyway. She was here for an interview, some artsy shots of the art itself, maybe one or two of the crowd, and then she was gone.

There were a couple waiters circulating with trays of finger food, but when she flagged one down to actually get something to eat, Angela was disappointed to realize that it was mostly cucumber sandwiches and other deconstructed, pretentious options. Probably supposed to evoke the complex emotions that the abstract paintings did. 

She opted to stick with her wine. 

Angela felt awkward rubbing shoulders with all the android guests so she found a corner that had less foot traffic than everywhere else and did her best to stay out of the way. She still felt awkward talking with them she figured. It was one thing to have one check out your groceries when you could look them in the eye and see the dead sort of look behind the glass, but when one was excitedly trying to discuss all the emotions it was having just by looking at colors on paper, it was a little disconcerting. 

She turned down a refill of her glass, remembering the interview she had in—Angela checked her phone, spitting a curse when she realized just how close the deadline was. 

She needed to find her film crew. 

She left her empty glass with a waiter, rushing off to find where her crew had gone off to. 

“There you are!” Syd said when she finally spotted the group near the back of the studio and hurried over. He snapped his fingers. “Fucking hair and makeup please! Get on her! We have an interview in fifteen minutes. Fifteen fucking minutes, people!” 

“It’ll be fine,” Angela said with a roll of her eyes, but she let herself be fussed over to be made presentable for the cameras. 

“Now,” Syd said, acting as if she hadn’t said anything. “We only have twenty minutes of interview time for our station. Understand? I’ve already written out questions for you so you don’t have to worry about, but you have to remember that as soon as our time is up, he’s only going to be taking group questions. Which is fucking horrible for television.” 

“We get it,” Angela muttered, but she took her microphone and didn’t protest. “Are we set up anywhere?” 

Syd gestured at a space that had been cleared out near the blue painting. There weren’t any chairs or anything but it would give them a good backdrop. And a little privacy from the noise of the rest of the showing. 

Markus wasn’t there yet, but Angela positioned herself on her mark in front of the camera, smoothing down her skirt and then looking over the notecards that Syd had given her. The questions were relatively basic, asking about inspiration and what motivated him. Things you would ask a normal artist. Angela looked up as someone else stepped in front of the camera. 

“Twenty fucking minutes, people!” Syd yelled.

Angela hadn’t met Markus in person before and all the videos of him had been shaky shots on a phone, smoke and gas covering most of the view so that he was barely visible. Sure she had seen pictures of him, knew of his model, that sort of thing. She wasn’t ready to see him face to face. 

Sort of face to face. 

He was a lot . . . _taller_ than she thought he would be. 

She had to look up just to be able to look him in the eye. She even stepped back a bit just so that she didn’t have to crane her neck so much. He was wearing a thin black turtle neck under a grey suit, modest and understated, like he wanted to art to be the showcase and not himself.

And then she recovered and remembered herself, smiling like she always did when she knew the camera was rolling. 

“Hello,” she said. “Markus. Angela Daly. It’s so great to finally meet you. The exhibit has been amazing so far.” 

He smiled at her, and Angela could almost tell that he was just as tired of this all as she was. “It’s been great,” he said, and with his tone you would believe him in an instant. “The turnout has been amazing and everyone has been so supportive so far.” 

Angela flipped to the second notecard, since that first question had been answered. “That’s great,” she said. “I’ve been walking through the studio myself and some of these pieces are _very_ impressive.” She gestured to the blue canvas they were standing in front of. “Some of them—this one in particular—must have hours of care put into them. How long did it take you with this whole studio? Approximately.” 

Markus seemed to think about it. “Less than a month,” he said. “I dedicated every free moment I had to my paintings, and once I wasn’t needed so much for this whole . . . revolution thing.” He waved a hand like it was nothing. “I was able to focus on it even more.” 

Angela nodded, flipping to her next card. “Well, seeing your work has been absolutely amazing. Takes my breath away. Is there a piece here you want to put under the spotlight? Maybe one that took a little more effort or is just extra meaningful to you?” 

Again, Markus mulled over the question. He seemed to take his time to think a lot, always giving himself a good thirty or so seconds to think of an answer and then another thirty seconds before he was comfortable actually answering. 

“There’s a small piece in here called The Morning After,” he finally said, gesturing vaguely at the rest of the studio. He smiled fondly, Angela would guess it was some inside joke. “The colors. . . . it just fits very nicely. That one came easily to me, and it was very satisfying to draw.” 

He spoke of it like it had good memories attached to it. And like he shared those memories with someone. Angela almost wanted to ask about them. That conversation sounded a lot more interesting than whatever questions she had on her cue cards. 

But Syd was gesturing at the clock and pointing to his own wrist, letting her know that they were on a schedule and she had to stick to a script. So Angela smiled wide for the camera and flipped to her next card.

“That sounds so nice,” she said. “I’ll have to find it before I leave tonight, see it for myself. There’s quite a few themes that are replicated throughout your work. Hope. Revolution. Parts of life specific to an android. I’m assuming you drew on these themes as you saw them replicated in your own life?” 

Marcus was nodding almost immediately this time. “Of course,” he said. “What better way to make art than to draw from your own life? It’s that experience that lets you create with more freedom. And I think you’re able to speak to more people when you are opening up your heart.” 

Angela could easily see how this android had led a revolution. 

“Of course,” she said. “That’s the best way to reach . . . . people. Outside those themes, as well as the obvious styles that you draw from as inspiration, some critics argue that mathematical algorithms cannot create unique art. What would you say to that?” 

The question almost died in her mouth before Angela remembered her professionalism and kept up her smile.

Markus, on the other hand, seemed to be caught off guard by the question. He frowned a little, looking to the camera for a brief moment before he seemed to remember himself. His hands stayed by his side, hanging in loose fists, and the only sign that he might be uncomfortable with the situation was the way his eyes flicked around before settling back on Angela. 

“I think it’s a unique perspective,” Markus said slowly. “And a completely understandable opinion to have. When you think about computer programs and how they function, most of it is just mathematical equations that answer whatever question is asked or create what you are looking for. When you think of an android, you would suspect that they function the same way.” 

He paused like he always did. Thinking things over. Planning what he was going to say.

“And when you look at a Picasso, is there not a distinct style and _tell_ that makes it clear that you are looking at a Picasso?” Markus said. “And when you look at Margaret Keane and her work, do you say her style is just mathematical? That the emotion she puts into her character’s eyes are just . . . an equation?” 

There was nothing in the script that gave Angela an answer for that question. 

She flipped to the next note card. 

“Many would say a lot of your art pieces are a nod to Pollock or perhaps the even older style of suminagashi,” she said, reading off the card. “Do you think this is a distinct stylistic choice or a nod to the fact that you are utilizing a specific learning algorithm where you are creating art that draws from specific styles already programed into your . . . . system.” 

And that time, the question did die before she made her way through it. Angela smiled bravely at the camera, trying to keep up the act as the questions went somewhere where she wasn’t prepared for. Maybe she should have screened the questions before asking them on air.

But Markus just met her question with a patient smile. 

“And this is when I ask you the difference between a human mind and my own. What really makes us different from each other? Is there anything at all?” he said with a sort of half-laugh. “I’m kidding. We’re here to appreciate art on paper. I don’t think we should put that much thought into it.” 

Syd was gesturing to them out of frame, making some sort of cutting gesture across his neck while also pointing to the clock. Angela guessed that they were out of time. 

Markus picked up on the que before she did, giving the camera a sheepish wave before pointing to the crowd of reporters that was eagerly waiting for him just out of frame. 

“I think I have other questions to answer,” he said. “But this interview has been wonderful. Thank you for having me and I hope you enjoy the rest of the studio.” He gave a nod to the camera and one last smile before stepping out of the space and into the crowd that was waiting for him. 

As far as Angela knew, there weren’t any other scheduled interviews so the questions were random and unrelated as all the other reporters pounced on him. Angela turned back to her camera, giving her trademarked smile as she brought the interview for a close. 

“And there you have it, folks,” she said. “Just a small glimpse into the android that brought you the art that you see here tonight. I don’t know about you but I’ve enjoyed everything that’s been offered here tonight, and I hope you did too. This has been Angela Daly, bringing you news of Detroit . . . as it happens.”

And with a signal from the cameraman, Angela was no longer live and she dropped the act. She passed off her microphone to an intern, accepted a new glass of wine, and finally let herself relax. Syd and the rest of the crew were no longer paying attention to her as they packed up their equipment and hurried to get out of the way.

She was stuck looking at Markus as he interacted with the rest of the reporters. So friendly and carefree. 

As she watched, he gestured for some android to join him—some flashy thing in a purple suit with a circling LED who seemed flustered at being in the center of attention. Markus said something that made all of the reporters laugh and the android under his arm flush with embarrassment. 

“How long have you been seeing each other?” one reporter demanded.

“Isn’t that the deviant hunter?” another said. 

Angela didn’t care for that sort of tabloid drama and rolled her eyes, tuning out whatever sort of cheesy response Markus gave that made the whole crowd laugh and wolf whistle. Still, she couldn’t help but glance over, watching as the flashy android dipped Markus over and kissed him firmly on the lips. It was obviously what the cameras were waiting for as they all went off at once, flashing wildly before the android pulled Markus back up and set him firmly back on his feet. 

Angela tried not to think too hard about it, about feelings and maths, equations and love, what was acceptable as a nervous tell and what was just a feature of programming that couldn’t be avoided. What was human and what was android. 

She needed another glass of wine before she put too much thought into it.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> i don't know the social hierarchy of reporters and i am not affiliated with Next Step Studios 
> 
> hey look, i'm on tumblr @manuscript-or


End file.
